Outsiders
by Angel Interceptor
Summary: Percy and Oliver try their best to make their relationship work. PW OW. [incomplete]
1. Some Wizards Do Have Them

Author's Note – This fic is based on a challenge issued on the POWSN list (powsn@yahoogroups.com) by Eternity. It was, quite simply, called the Homophobic Wizarding World Challenge. What would happen if the Wizarding World wasn't as accepting of gay wizards as us slash writers like to think? (yes, that's right. This story is Slash. If you don't like that, then tough. Press the back key and find something else.) Flames will not be tolerated unless you leave a valid email address. I might want to ask you some questions as to why you hate my writing. Anyway, enjoy.

OUTSIDERS, PART ONE

To all watchful eyes, Percy Weasley was engrossed in the Ottery St Catchpole Amateur Wizarding Theatre Group's production of "_Some Wizard's Do Have Them".  He was laughing in all the right places, blushing whenever his father appeared on stage in a paisley waistcoat and long drooping moustache (which twirled independently whenever Arthur wasn't speaking). But in reality, Percy wasn't watching the play at all._

His fingers were slowly lacing in and out of Oliver's, his thumb grazing the other boy's palm, his leg touching Oliver's. He couldn't help but smile as the pressure was gently returned, the other boy's breath warm on his neck. 

"Later…" Oliver murmured, enjoying Percy's increasingly laboured breathing as his hand crawled up the other boy's thigh, "when we're back at the Burrow…"

"What…?"

"I'll make you the happiest man on earth."

"Is that a promise?"

"Oh yes."

*

"Well boys, did you enjoy it?" Arthur appeared from backstage, his face red and glowing from the pressure he'd applied when scrubbing off his greasepaint. 

"And girls…" Ginny piped up, pouting. 

Arthur grinned, ruffling his daughter's hair. "And girls. Sorry love."

"I thought you were very good," Mrs Weasley licked her finger and attempted to rub off the splashes of greasepaint that Arthur had dribbled all over his shirt, "Very funny."

"We didn't see much of it," George explained proudly, grabbing hold of Angelina's hand. 

"Us neither…" Fred waggled his eyebrows across at his girlfriend, who smacked him lightly across the chest. 

"You're not supposed to say that," she muttered, "You're supposed to pretend we paid full attention all the way through…"

"And expect people to believe that we didn't take advantage of an hour and a half under the cover of darkness? Like anyone would believe that!"

"I'd try to believe it," Molly shook her head. "You boys. Always up to something..."

"I saw it all the way through," Hermione nodded, "It was very good, especially the way you interspersed the first and third person in the second act…"

Ron folded his arms. Fred and George shook their heads, clicking sadly. "No action for ickle Ronnikins then? All together then… awwww."

Ron ground his teeth, "I think… I'm going… to have… to kill you."

"Not in public dear."

"It'll keep." Ron narrowed his eyes and slipped his hand into Hermione's. She patted it absentmindedly as she scanned the room, taking in the photographs of past productions that littered the walls.

"How about you, Harry?" Arthur rested his eyes on the quietest member of their group. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"It was good… no, it was great. Absolutely brilliant." Blushing furiously, he nodded his head towards the door, "I'm just going to nip to the toilet."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, and glanced towards Ginny, who suddenly became very interested in the Roll of witches and wizards who had donated money to the village hall over the years. Spotting her blushes, she smiled. "Where's Percy?" she asked, changing the subject. "Considering he'll have been the only other person who managed to get through the whole play without becoming distracted."

"I'm here." Percy was leaning against a pillar, watching Oliver with a lazy eye. The boy was engrossed in the photographic history of the local Quidditch team, who played from the field behind the hall.

"Unless he's suddenly decided that Oliver is the MAN for him," Fred muttered, stifling a grin.

"God, can you imagine it?" George shook his head. "Percy and Oliver?" 

"Oliver with a limp wrist?" Ron grinned, "That'd be good on a broomstick." 

"Hang on," Percy attempted to recollect himself, "Not all gay people are as camp as a row of tents, you know."

"No;" Angelina smirked, "Some manage to be as camp as a whole bloody campsite."

"What's all this about me and a limp wrist?" Oliver had finished staring at Quidditch players through the ages and thought it about time he rejoined the Weasley clan. He slipped his arm through Percy's, squeezing slightly as he did so. "Are you saying you don't think me and Percy would make a good gay couple?" He popped his hand on his hip, "Percy could do all the housework, and I could be the butch one."

"Yeah, right." Ron was leaning against the wall to control his laughter. "I can just imagine Percy…"

"…in a pink frilly apron…" George joined in, snorting.

"…calling Oliver in for his tea!" Ginny smiled. "I can see it now."

"That's enough ridicule of the boys," Molly shook her head, laughing at the idea of Percy in a pink frilly apron, "Come on, we're going to miss last orders at the Pig and Kettle." Amongst much pushing, shoving, catcalling and general disharmony, the Weasley family attempted to remove themselves in the direction of the after show party. 

"It would be 'Percy and I'" Percy corrected quietly, disentangling himself from Oliver, letting the others move on ahead.

"What?" Oliver looked back at his best friend, and shook his head. "What are you going on about?"

Percy sighed, "It would be 'you don't think Percy and I would make a good gay couple.' Not 'me and Percy'."

"I'm sorry Perce… but what was I supposed to do? You were looking like someone had just shot your bunny rabbit…"

"Don't joke."

"Ok, I'm sorry. You were looking like they were upsetting you. Do you really want them to come sniffing around us? For them to think there really was something going on between us?"

"There is something going on between us." Percy muttered obstinately. 

"Yeah, and do you want them to find out? It would only be worse than that. I don't think I could cope with the constant hassle. And you? You were upset when they popped you in a pink frilly apron. And that was only in their imaginations. Imagine the reality."

Percy wrinkled his nose. Maybe Oliver was right. He shrugged, conceding the point for now. "Why can't I be the butch one, then?" Percy pouted.

"Because, sweetheart, you couldn't be butch if you tried."

"I could!" he stamped his foot. 

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"OK." Percy smiled, "You can be the butch one. But what does that make me? Because I'm not wearing the pink apron. I'm adamant about that!"

"You can be whatever you want to be, poppet, as long as we can continue this later. I am in desperate need of a pint."

"In the bedroom?" Percy asked hopefully.

Oliver sighed. This boy was insatiable. "In the bedroom. As soon as I've had my pint."


	2. Respectability?

A/N Thankyou for all the lovely reviews, I really appreciate them. This is Slash (although if you've got this far you've probably already realised!) and I realised I had forgotten a disclaimer. So, These characters do not belong to me, I am not and do not intend to make any money out of borrowing them, I don't intend any copyright infringement. I do it because I like them, and they're vastly underrated characters. 

Angel Interceptor x

Part Two

They were woken by the shrill whistle of Percy's alarm clock. 

"Shurrup," Oliver thumped the bedside table. The alarm endured a brief hiccup and a squeak before whistling even louder than before. 

"That won't make it stop, you know," Percy mumbled, opening one eye. "That's what makes these things magic, their ability to keep going even when squashed."

"What if I make its entrails come out?" Oliver stared with some concern at the flattened alarm clock. 

"It'll only whistle louder." Percy shrugged, "That's the beauty of the 'get-you-up-even-if-its-your-last-wish' alarm clock. It only stops when we get out of bed."

"And yet neither of us are moving. What happens if I throw it out of the window?"

"It bounces back."

"And what, may I ask, caused you to buy such an object?" Oliver, with some degree of difficulty and a lot of unnecessary grunting, was manoeuvring his way out from under the duvet. 

"I think it was the minor possibility that Mum could catch us in bed together. That would probably cause a major heart attack and perhaps scar her for life."

"Only for life?" he shrugged, and pulled the duvet off Percy. "For someone who is so bloody anally retentive, you're a bugger to get up in the morning."

"I know…" he waggled an eyebrow suggestively, sitting up. 

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Weasley." He smiled, peace finally reigning as the alarm clock shut up its infernal whistling, "It's morning. Time for respectability."

"I don't like respectability." Percy mumbled petulantly, pulling on a pair of pants. 

"I'd never have guessed." Oliver was over by the mirror, staring ruefully at the red scratches up and down his back, "How on earth am I going to explain this away when I get to the gym?"

"Tell them your boyfriend did it."

"No fear. I like my job, thank you very much."

"Tell them your girlfriend did it."

"They'll want to meet her."

"Are you always this difficult?" Percy dropped a kiss on Oliver's shoulder. "Tell them you've got an over-active cat. Tell them anything. Tell them you had to pay for it."

Oliver grinned, and pulled a t-shirt on over his inflamed skin. "They'd never shut up if they thought I'd taken home a whore…"

Percy shook his head, taking a pristine duck-egg blue shirt from a drawer full of equally pristine duck-egg blue shirts. "They'd think you were a real man then."

"Oh yeah." His breath faltered as Percy kissed the back of his neck, his fingers sliding into the waistband of his boxers, before he pulled away, grinning.

"Funny how they're happy if you're picking up random 'ladies of the night', but the very idea of you falling in love with me is a completely alien concept."

"I suppose that's life." Oliver sighed, and leaned over to kiss Percy. "I think I'm going to leave my t-shirt on for training. Avoid the issue completely."

Percy shrugged, and sank onto the bed. "Maybe I'm not as complacent as you, but I'm not entirely sure that this is 'life', you know. We're not doing anything wrong. This is me – I've never done anything against the rules in my life! And yet here we are, skulking about and hiding in corners. We're secreting Percy and Oliver under the cover of darkness, and quite frankly I'm sick of lying to everybody. I'm bored of having to be the first person up in the morning so there's no chance that anyone could catch us…"

"I wouldn't mind getting up a little later myself, you know." 

"Why do I get the feeling you're not taking this as seriously as I am?"

Oliver shrugged. "What can we do about it? It isn't as if we both stay over here very often anyhow. But to be perfectly honest, even if everyone did know about us, its not going to change public opinion is it? People aren't going to suddenly change their mind and think that it's ok for wizards to love each other…"

"Maybe somebody should stand up and make them change."

"Are you volunteering?" Oliver raised an eyebrow. 

"Maybe I am." Percy sighed, and slipped his gown on over his shirt. "Come on, sweetheart, we'll be late for breakfast."

*

"You're both awake early, boys," Mrs Weasley yawned, and headed for the kettle. 

"Nice dressing gown, Mrs Weasley."

"Thank you, Oliver." She shot a reproving glance towards Percy, "I'm glad someone noticed I've finally managed to get around to getting a new one." She smoothed down the lilac toweling, smiling happily. 

"I noticed." Percy muttered, shooting a glance across the table.

"Oh yeah?" Oliver's foot lightly grazed Percy's ankle beneath the table.

"Sucker," Percy mouthed.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, 'Moi?' and promptly removed his foot.

Percy narrowed his eyes, "It's a lovely dressing gown, Mum," he ground out.

"More…" Oliver mouthed, waggling his eyebrows.

"Sometimes I hate you," he muttered.

"What was that, love?" Mrs Weasley turned round from the kettle.

"Go on Percy…"

"I said, let me make you breakfast, Mum."

*

"I'm a little concerned, Arthur," Molly was doing the crossword in her _Wizard's Weekly summer special, scribbling every now and again to make the quill work. _

Arthur, with the kind of excitement usually reserved for children on Christmas morning, was attacking a toaster with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. "What about?" he muttered, closing one eye and peering in distaste at the crumb tray. 

"About Percy." She licked her lips and reached for another chocolate digestive. "It's been almost a year since he and Penny called it a day, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of another girl in all that time."

"Well, you know Percy, love," Arthur helped himself to a custard cream, "in his best possible light; he's not the most personable of boys."

Molly nodded. "Mmmm, but I'm worried about how much time he's spending with Oliver. It's difficult for any girl to get a look in when those two are together; you can't prise them apart."

"I wouldn't worry Molly," Arthur smiled gently; "he's taken care of himself for a long time. He may not be the most sociable Weasley ever to grace the family photographs, but he's not unhappy. He has different needs to the rest of us."

Outside the kitchen door, Hermione raised an eyebrow. Different needs indeed. There was no girl alive who'd beat Oliver when it came to winning Percy's attention. And it was about time the Weasley family took their heads out of the sand and saw exactly what was staring them in the face. 

TBC…


	3. Tensions

A/N Well, those of you who follow my writing may well have concluded that I only ever really get down to writing when I should be doing something else… Today, being Sunday, I should be writing an essay on Time Travel for philosophy tomorrow, but quite frankly, I'm very bored and soooo not in the mood. So I thought I'd get another part up of this. Thankyou for the lovely reviews, they are very very welcome. And just a small aside to the reviewer who asked… Any confusions regarding Hermione's role in this _will be cleared up soon… _

Angel Interceptor x

Part Three

"Morning sweetheart," 

Oliver opened one eye to find Percy sitting over him, gently playing with his hair. The sun was streaming through the curtains. 

"Mmmm," Oliver smiled lazily, "I could wake up every morning to this, you know."

Percy shrugged, "So why don't you?" He dropped a kiss onto Oliver's forehead before snuggling down, pulling the duvet over the two of them. His arm snaked around Oliver's chest and pulled him closer, "I've said it before; why don't you move in here? It's nearer to the training ground. It's practical, it's cheaper. We don't have to pay two rents."

"We apparate to work," Oliver pointed out, relishing the contact as his legs intertwined with Percy's, "It doesn't make a scrap of difference where we start from."

"Stop making excuses." His fingers were gently exploring Oliver's bare chest, his lips dropping brief kisses across his shoulders. 

"What would the neighbours say? More to the point, what would your parents say? Your Mum already thinks I'm holding you back in your quest to find the new Mrs Weasley." Oliver's hands covered Percy's, pressing their bodies together. 

Percy shook his head, nuzzling the other boy's neck as he did so, muttering, "No she doesn't, don't be ridiculous."

He leant back into Percy's soft touch, murmuring "In the nicest possible way, she does. She's desperate to have you all settled down and married. You're the only one who's not sorted out." His fingers squeezed gently.

"What about Ginny?"

"Why on earth do you think that Harry has got an open invitation to stay at your house?"

Percy wrinkled his nose. That was something he hadn't considered. But now he came to think about it, Molly was always dispatching them on errands; buying milk, de-gnoming, and a bit of gardening in the paddock. Seems there was more to his mother than he'd previously thought, there was a definite skill in the matchmaking department there. Percy shifted slightly, his fingers sliding downwards. Percy felt Oliver's sharp intake of breath and decided that this was the perfect time for a change of tack, "I have two bedrooms. If you're that worried about the neighbours, you can pretend you're the lodger." He shrugged, his fingers grazing Oliver's boxers, "Though I'm not entirely sure why you feel we have to lie." 

Oliver shook his head, pulling away. "Sometimes you can be so bloody obtuse, you know that?"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm going to make coffee."

*

Oliver was sat on the kitchen windowsill, the cafetiere on his lap. The street outside was uncommonly quiet. It was still early, and to be honest, Sunday morning in Percy's area of London was never a hive of activity anyway. 

"Be careful, you'll spill." Percy was leaning against the kitchen door, having pulled on a pair of checked pyjama bottoms. 

Smiling slightly, Oliver shook his head. "Percy, your pyjamas have a crease up the front. Please, please don't tell me you iron your pyjamas."

Oliver was gratified to see a slight blush snake up Percy's face. 

"Doesn't everybody?" he mumbled stiffly.

Oliver shook his head again, unable to stifle his grin, "Nope." He raised an eyebrow, "Only old people. And perhaps people who are too frustrated to live a normal life." He shot a sidelong glance across the kitchen.

"Frustrated?" Percy licked his lips, "So, Oliver, you're going to put the coffee down, come over here and ease my frustrations then?"

"Percy Weasley, does your mind permanently reside in the gutter, or does it come out sometimes for holidays?"

Percy shrugged. "It's pretty much there all the time." He raised an eyebrow, "Occasionally it has a Tuesday off though…"

Oliver slipped off the counter, "Remind me to avoid you on Tuesdays then, sweetheart." His lips grazed Percy's, his hands exploring the boy's bare back.

"So, basically what you're saying," Percy mumbled, his hands in Oliver's hair, his body pressed tightly up against Oliver's, "…what you're saying is that you only want me for sex…"

Oliver's hands stilled, his mouth pulling away from Percy's. "Stop putting words in my mouth, Perce." He sighed, running his fingers through his mussed hair. "I'll pour the coffee out."

Percy shook his head, "What on earth is wrong with you? One minute you're fine, the next minute you're off. It was only a joke, Ol. What's going on?"

Oliver blinked. An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen.

            Finally, "Nothing."

            "Don't give me that. I know you too well." He folded his arms. 

            "We're not at school anymore, you can't tell me what to do, Perce."

            Percy waggled an eyebrow, "I thought you liked it when I got strict…"

            "I'm serious."

            Percy sighed, muttering, "So was I." He got the milk out of the fridge. 

            Oliver passed him the cafetiere, "We're not children any more. We've got responsibilities, positions to uphold."

            "What has this got to do with us?" Percy demanded, getting cups out of the cupboard behind him. Oliver's was big and blue with Puddlemere United emblazoned across the side. Percy's had been a gift from work, 'You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps'. 

            "It has _everything to do with us, if you would only take your blinkers off!" Oliver held up his mug, "__Puddlemere United. They pay me to play Quidditch, and I do it really well. I love it, in fact. But you tell me how many gay Quidditch players you can name."_

            Percy smiled, taking his coffee. "You can be the first."

            Oliver shook his head, "I don't want to be the first. I was never a trendsetter. I like to follow that crowd. More importantly though, how many gay members of the Ministry can you name?"

            "I don't mind being the first, even if you do."

            "Except you won't be the first; people have been thrown out of office for admitting that they've been involved with a man."

            "Not for years," Percy sighed obstinately, sitting down.

            "Why do you refuse to see it how it really is?"

            "And why do you only ever see the negative?"

            "I'm going for a walk."

            "Fine, run away."

            *

            "Sorry." Oliver was leaning against the bookcase, a rueful smile on his face. "Forgive me?"

            Percy sighed, and put the newspaper down. "You've been gone ages. I was worried."

            "I know. I'm sorry."

            "I cooked us dinner."

            Oliver blushed, "Is it salvageable?"

            Percy shook his head, smiling slightly, "No. But that's more to do with my complete inability to cook rather than you not being here when it was ready."

            "Funny how you're clever enough to be the youngest head of department ever to hit the ministry, but you can't even boil an egg without setting something on fire."

            "Eggs are very difficult, I'll have you know."

            Oliver smiled. "I know. Difficult buggers, eggs." He stilled, suddenly serious. 

            Percy bit his lip, staring across the room at Oliver. "Will we ever agree on this?" he asked softly.

            "I don't know." Oliver took his hands out of his pockets, and sighed. "I love you, Perce."

            "I know."

            "Sometimes I think that you don't think I do." He grinned, replaying the sentence in his head. 

            Percy smiled gently. "I know you do. I've always known."

            "I'm scared that it isn't going to be enough, Perce. I'm worried that this is going to rip us apart." He sank down into a huge paisley armchair, his face strained.

            "It won't." 

            "I don't think I have your optimism." 

            Percy shrugged, suddenly scared. "It isn't optimism. I love you, you love me. We're not doing anything wrong; we're not breaking any laws. We can get through this." 

            "Me and you – our relationship – it is no-one else's business but ours. I don't understand why you suddenly want to bring it into the public domain."

            "I'm sick of lying, Ol." He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm so tired of lying to people. If people ask me if I'm in a relationship, I want to say yes. I'm so proud of you, Oliver. I love everything about you, and I want people to know that you're mine. What's so wrong with that?"

            Oliver smiled softly, "Nothing, in principle." He bit his lip, "But everything in reality. Who is going to take us seriously once this all gets out? I'll never play for the first team again, and you'll never move out of International Cooperation. Is that what you really want?"

            "No; of course I don't want to compromise you. But I just think that we deserve more than this…"

            "We're never going to agree, are we?"

            "We'll find some middle ground."

            "You sound very sure, Perce."

            "What other option is there?" Percy patted the sofa, "Come over here, lets not think about it for a while."

            Oliver curled up on the sofa, his head in Percy's lap. Above him, Percy gently stroked his hair, curling his fingers in and out. Oliver closed his eyes, a sudden burst of fear flying through him. He couldn't bear the idea of not having this anymore, of not being able to love Percy and have him love back. Terrified, he clung harder to the other boy, feeling Percy's grip tighten on him. 

'Please don't let anything tear us apart…'


	4. Food

**Author's Note: I only ever seem to be able to write when I should be doing something else instead. I am now rapidly approaching the (already extended) deadline for my final history essay of the semester, and still I mess around in the vague hope that the essay will somehow write itself when I'm not looking. Somehow I think my wishes will not be granted…**

As always, feedback is appreciated, flames are tolerated if justified and with a valid email address. 

**_Disclaimer: These characters are the property of someone else- J.K. Rowling and her publishers, the film company. No copyright infringement is intended by this story. _**

**Part Four**

            They agreed to meet in the pub after they'd both finished work. Percy was late for once, hurrying in the door fifteen minutes after he should have done, still in his dark ministry robes. Oliver, who had rushed through his shower at the end of training to get there on time, looked red and scrubbed. The weather on the pitch had been harsh, the wind whipping past him as he'd had to repeat the same move over and over until the coach had finally expressed some modicum of satisfaction. He felt bruised, battered, and somewhat bewildered by Percy's unaccustomed tardiness. 

Percy, meanwhile, looked exhausted and for once didn't say anything as he sank onto the cushion next to Oliver.

            "Bad day, sweetheart?" Oliver smiled, pushing a pint of butter beer across the table. 

            "Bloody awful." He took a gulp of the beer, shooting a sidelong glance at Oliver, "I missed you."

            Unable to help himself, Oliver did a quick sweeping glance over the bar. "I missed you too," he muttered, reaching for his pint.

            "There isn't anyone around, Ol." Percy shook his head, "No-one will hear you expressing any emotion, heaven forbid."

            "I was just checking…" A blush snaked its way up Oliver's face, and he suddenly became very interested in the head on his beer.

            "Checking for what?" Percy narrowed his eyes, and took a slow glance around the pub, "Shady _Daily Prophet reporters desperate to raise their profile by outing us? It's hardly front page news, Oliver."_

            "You'd be surprised." 

            Percy raised his eyebrows. "Front Page news? Us? Ministry Worker and Reserve Keeper for 2nd Division Puddlemere United?"

            Oliver shrugged, "Thanks Perce. Anytime you want to insult me further, I'll be right here." He stood up, feeling in his pockets for his money. "I'm going to the bar."

            Percy closed his eyes, and let out a deep breath. Bugger. He could feel a headache coming on; his temple ached. It had been a very long day; two Croatian wizards had spent much of the day complaining to him –in Croatian- about the degree – or lack of- attention they had received at the recent International Education Convention in Whitby. The department's language specialist had scarpered at the prospect of spending four hours trying to calm down two irate elderly wizards, leaving Percy to muddle along with his tourist Croatian, most of which consisted of 'Where is the nearest toilet please' and 'What time is the next train to Slovakia'. Neither of which had been much use in preventing international discomfort between two nations with a difficult history. The situation had finally been resolved when an understanding had been reached regarding a mutual dislike of the deputation of Wizards from France. Percy and the now-calm wizards were meeting up the following week for a Ploughman's in Derby, before convening with the other European delegations for a meeting to discuss Christmas. It was bloody May… Furthermore, Percy was now faced with the difficult prospect of disciplining his language specialist. Lucy may well be the laziest Ministry worker ever to grace the department, but she was also the Minister for Magic's niece. 

            "I got you some pork scratchings." Oliver dropped the packet on the table, and slid in next to his boyfriend. He pulled a second packet of snacks out of his pocket and ripped them open. 

            "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything." Percy mumbled, helping himself to a pork scratching. 

            Oliver shrugged, "It doesn't matter. It's true." 

            "I still shouldn't have said it…" Percy's eyes narrowed, "What are you eating?"

            Oliver blushed, "Erm… Scampi fries."

            "I annoyed you so much that you had to buy the most disgusting – and might I add the smelliest - foodstuff on this planet?"

            "Pretty much," Oliver grinned slyly, "I thought you deserved it. Plus, Percy, that's pretty unfair to the scampi fries – you haven't tried every type of food. There could be something much, much worse."

            Percy shuffled a little further away, his forehead contorted in disgust, "There couldn't be. It's not possible."

            Oliver licked his lips and began to nibble on a scampi fry, enjoying Percy's obvious discomfort. "I've had to sit through your cooking, Weasley. Some of your concoctions have been fairly foul – remember the mature cheddar and scrambled egg debacle?"

            "I would gladly eat that if faced with a choice between that and a scampi fry."

            Oliver laughed, remembering Percy's face as he'd served up what had been the most disgusting meal that had ever been created. Renouncing all his manners, Percy had promptly regurgitated the whole mouthful into his handkerchief and declared he had the perfect recipe to try out on Fred and George if they ever sent him dragon dung through the post again. Oliver had had enough of this, "Let's go home, sweetheart. I'm starving."

            Percy's face brightened and he raised an eyebrow, "Hungry for me?"

            Oliver shrugged, resisting the temptation to check the locality for listening ears, "Maybe… but I was thinking more in terms of a curry…"

            "Bastard…" he shrugged, "But there's no way I'm kissing you until you've cleaned your teeth anyhow!"

            *

            They always ordered too much food, drawn in by the beauty of the menu. Percy was lying back on the sofa, groaning slowly as he took in the sea of food that surrounded them both. Peshwari naans, saag aloo, lamb balti, prawn biriyani, and a lamb bhuna. Spicy potato pakoras, onion bhajis, and an aloo methi. Garlic naan, flavoured rice. Poppadoms, mango chutney, a yoghurt, mint and cucumber dip. Lime pickle. 

Oliver was staring in some concern at the food. "Do you think the table will take the weight?" he asked, only half-joking.

            "Do you think we'll even come close to finishing this?" 

            "We'll have to have it for breakfast."

            "I suppose that means you'll be staying with me tonight then." Percy resolutely refused to look up from his plate, a smile spilling across his face. 

            "I suppose it does." Oliver's eye caught Percy's, and they both grinned. There was a long pause, before Oliver bit his lip, "I did miss you today, Perce. I miss you whenever you're not there with me."

            Percy grabbed Oliver's hand, stopping it from reaching a bhaji. His thumb grazed the other boy's palm, "I know, Ol. Regardless of how much of an idiot I am, whatever stupid things I say, I do know how you feel. I know you love me."

            "Good." Oliver sighed, and moved onto the sofa next to Percy, "I love you, Percy. I just don't want anything to jeopardise that."

            "I don't either." Percy dropped his hand onto Oliver's thigh, rubbing gently. "Now let's start eating before it gets cold, and before we turn into two of the soppiest creatures ever to walk the planet."

            *

            Percy couldn't sleep. The light from the streetlight below his window streamed in, irritating him. He opened his curtains at night because he wanted to see the stars, and then closed them in the morning so he could get dressed in private. He couldn't stop staring at the boy asleep next to him; the blonde, rosy cheeked, handsome Quidditch player who for some reason loved him. He was curled up under the duvet, a few bruises visible from seriously over-active bludgers. A perk of the job, Oliver always joked. There were a few bruises and scratches that weren't altogether down to the boy's job… unless loving Percy had suddenly become a career option. 

            Percy sighed. There was some paperwork he could be getting on with, there was no point wasting time moping. Plus, there was something he wanted to read. Slipping out of bed and into some pyjama bottoms, he reached for his dressing gown.

            In the kitchen, he put some water on the stove and instructed it to boil. He opened the curtains, sitting on the window seat whilst he peeled an apple. It was bloody freezing, but Percy liked to watch the stars. He made hot chocolate, and settled himself in front of the fire in the living room. The room still smelt vaguely of curry, but that was resolved with a quick wave of his wand. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a letter, and sat down to re-read it. 

            It was from Hermione, and it had arrived that morning. 

_Dear Percy,_

_            How are you? I hope you haven't been too busy and have had time to enjoy the warm weather. It has certainly cheered up recently; it looks as if summer is well and truly on its way._

_            Percy raised his eyebrows, glancing out of the window into the dark. It had rained almost consistently for the last week, and the weather showed no signs of letting up. _

            _I will be visiting __London__ next week and was wondering if you were free for dinner on Wednesday. I will be staying at The Owl and Cauldron on __Grosvenor Lane__, which I have been told has a wonderful chef._

_            Percy sighed again. It certainly did, the pub had been his own personal favourite when he has started the long business of ministry interviews and training. The similarities between him and Hermione were there, they were staring up at him from the page. From the methodical, clear writing to the way in which she intended to deal with him and Oliver; it was brisk and to the point. _

_            I have something I would like to discuss with you, something of a sensitive nature. It has recently come to my attention the nature of your relationship with Oliver, and I am sure you are aware of the possible repercussions of this slur on both yourselves and your family. I have always been honest with you, and I don't intend to stop now. Your continuing of this relationship will be disastrous for your family's reputation. However, I know that you don't enter into anything lightly, and without due consideration of the facts. I have been looking into the subject, and have come up with some information which may be beneficial to you. _

_            I hope to discuss this with you over dinner. Would eight o' clock suit you?_

_            Hermione_

            "What are you doing out of bed?" Oliver was rubbing his eyes sleepily, wearing nothing but loose black boxers.

            "I couldn't sleep," Percy shrugged ruefully. "You'll catch your death if you wander round in just your pants, you know."

            Oliver shrugged, "I've got you to warm me up." He held out his hand, beckoning Percy to him. "Come here, love."

            Percy smiled, and shook himself. Hermione could wait. She was almost family, certainly no threat. He grinned softly, standing up. He folded the letter in two and slipped it back into the drawer. No point in worrying Oliver until he'd met with Hermione and knew what it was she was suggesting. Taking hold of Oliver's outstretched hand, he winked, "I'm going to make you very warm indeed…"


	5. Percy Meets Hermione

Outsiders

_A Percy and Oliver Love Story_

Author's note: This was written before the order of the phoenix came out, and as such has no bearing to J.K Rowling's presentation of the character of Percy in that book. This story is set in an alternative universe where the pressure exerted by Voldemort is minimal or non-existent, and certainly has no overbearing influence on the characters. The interpretation of Percy is my opinion of how he may act in private – behind closed doors – and the struggles he faces in accepting the two opposing parts of his character. His relationship with Oliver is, to me, a facet of that inner struggle. This piece does not reflect the thoughts and beliefs of J.K Rowling or any other person or company with links to the copyright of Harry Potter. No infringement is intended. 

_Angel Interceptor, _July 3rd 2003____

[website: www dot geocities dot com / sunsetmog ]

______________________________________________________________________________________

Part Five

By the time that the alarm went off on Wednesday morning, Percy had been awake for almost two hours. Weary beyond the point of exhaustion, he hadn't had the energy to climb out of bed and make an early start on the backlog of paperwork that had just been building up and up over the preceding week. He just hadn't been able to concentrate on work ever since Hermione's letter had arrived; everyone had been commenting on his inattention. They seemed to think that merely because Percy had been staring at the same page of the _Ministry Directive on National Christmas Celebrations for almost an hour, he would be completely unaware of his colleagues pointing and sniggering. They seemed unaware that Percy had endured something similar for much of his life, and had got 'paying no attention' down to a fine art. _

Beside him, a low groan indicated that the alarm had penetrated the coma that Oliver liked to call sleep. The duvet shifted slightly, and one half closed eye peered up at him in the murky gloom of the early morning. "Do we have to get up, Perce?" the eye murmured, blinking periodically. 

Percy tried to smile. Nothing would give him more pleasure. Under the duvet, a warm hand, followed by an even warmer arm, slipped across his chest, pulling him closer. "No sweetheart," Percy whispered, pulling Oliver closer, "Let's stay in bed today."

There was a long silence, and then a quizzical Oliver pulled himself up from under the bedclothes.

"What?" he rubbed his eyes, "Did I just hear you right?"

"Don't you want to spend the day in bed with me?" Percy shrugged, blushing slightly. 

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright?" He lay a hand on Percy's forehead, but it felt cool; cold even. "I thought you might be sickening for something," he explained, "I can't believe this is really Percy Weasley, my Percy, suggesting we play truant!"

"I don't think it sounds like a bad idea, personally…" Percy muttered, pulling the blankets tighter.

"Shut up and get up, you great wazzock, before you get me worried." Oliver shook his head and dragged himself out of bed. "Bloody hell, its sodding freezing," he moaned, pulling on Percy's spare dressing gown, a flannelette affair with a flowery collar. "And where the bloody hell did you find this monstrosity? Do you do it on purpose just to make me look ridiculous?"

"I happen to like it, thank you very much," Percy folded his arms petulantly, "I've never heard you mention you didn't like it before…"

"I thought you might guess," Oliver pulled it tighter, "anyway, there comes a time when things just have to come out in the open." He grinned across at Percy, and winked, "Anyone else agree that the perfect time has arisen for a cup of tea?"

Percy had suddenly gotten very cold. "I suppose, love, you're suggesting that I should do the honours?" he managed. 

"Got it in one," Oliver raised an eyebrow, "Are you sure you're alright? You're acting a bit weird."

"I'm fine," Percy maintained, staring at a point about two inches above Oliver's right eyebrow.

"If you're sure… come on, chop chop! Get that lazy arse of yours out of bed and into the kitchen" he clapped his hands, dodging expertly out of the way as a pillow whizzed by his ear. 

"That would have hit you if you weren't a bloody Quidditch player…" Percy grumbled, reaching for his own dressing gown, a red and green tartan woolly affair. He'd spent the last Sunday afternoon hand washing it in cold water after Oliver had knocked hot chocolate all over the bedroom in a spirited attempt at an early morning call. He'd had no idea how much chocolate and milk stained if you were lax about soaking it – Oliver hadn't let him out of the bedroom until lunchtime, enjoying Percy's overactive housewife concern.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever…" Oliver called from the safety of the bathroom, "it's just because you're a crap aim!"

"Bugger off!" Taking a deep breath, Percy closed his eyes, and wondered whether this day would ever end. 

*

"You're quiet this morning, sweetheart," Oliver was watching him from across the table, a half eaten piece of toast in one hand and a large coffee in the other. Never mind chocolate, Oliver couldn't even manage to tie his own shoelaces in a morning until he'd had his fair share of caffeine intake. For a while, he'd tried to digest chocolate-coffee, but he'd begun to realise that there were much more enjoyable ways of satisfying the cravings; coffee first and then mountains of chocolate spread on toast. 

Percy attempted a smile, "I didn't sleep very well," he admitted, half-heartedly stirring his rice krispies. He wasn't hungry. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" Oliver reached over and took hold of Percy's hand, "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you? Is it something to do with work?"

Percy cleared his throat, "Of course I'd tell you if something was wrong at work," he avoided Oliver's concerned eyes, "come on, we'll be late."

"And we can't have that now, can we?"

"Sod off, cheeky bugger."

*

He was deliberately late to the _Owl and Cauldron _after spending the previous twenty minutes pacing up and down the shopping streets, peering into windows and refusing a nice lady's friendly offer of a warm bed and a cup of tea afterwards. He hadn't known what to wear to meet Hermione, so had finally decided just to keep working until he had to leave. He moved awkwardly, his suit and robes uncomfortable. 

She was waiting for him in the entrance, nursing a cup of tea and a copy of the _Daily Prophet. _

"Percy," standing up, she held her hand out. 

Oddly formal, Percy noted, awkwardly shaking her outstretched hand. "Hermione."

"Shall we go through? I booked a table for eight o' clock with the landlord."

"Of course," he indicated the arch through from the bar to the eating area, "After you."

*

Faced with the menu, Percy saw nothing but a blur of words and pictures. His mouth was dry and his hands were damp, he couldn't concentrate on anything.

Hermione, seeing his distraction, lay her hand on his, smiling. "How long have we known each other, Percy?" she asked quietly.

Percy was shaken out of his reverie, staring down at her hand on his. Recollecting himself, he pulled away from her touch. "I don't know… since you came to Hogwarts?"

"Seven years." She smiled, and closed her menu. Biting her lip, there was a silence. "Have you loved Oliver all that time?"

"Hermione, please…" he shook his head, sitting back in his chair.

She motioned to the waiter for a jug of water; her throat felt parched. "I don't mean to be rude, Percy. Please."

  
"Alright, yes." He sighed, nodding. "All that time."

"You've been lying a long time."

Percy said nothing, staring straight across at her. He was fully aware that it would be relatively easy for her to break him and Oliver… if she wanted to. He wasn't going to make it even easier.

"It must have been hard," she ploughed on.

Percy quelled a bizarre desire to smirk; yes, sometimes it had been. Very hard. In his mind's eye he could see Oliver, dancing round his bedroom in a pair of ironed floral drawstring pyjama bottoms, singing _I am the Walrus at the top of his voice, before collapsing onto the bed, kissing him. He sighed; it hadn't always been entertaining dance routines and hot chocolate, there was no disputing the pressure that sometimes overwhelmed them. Where was she taking this? He poured a glass of water for them both, "Yes," he admitted, "it has been hard."_

"Has it been worth it?"

"That's a strange question. Would I still be with him if it wasn't?"

Hermione took a sip of water. "Not really. Is being with Oliver worth all the lying and the hiding?"

Percy narrowed his eyes, "What do you want me to say? I wouldn't still be with him if it wasn't." He leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. "If you want to break us up, Hermione, I'll fight you all the way." He stared her straight in the eye, an eyebrow cocked. "I love him, and I don't want to lose him. I _won't lose him because of you."_

"You've got the wrong idea," Hermione said quietly. "I just wanted to help." Leaning down, she opened her briefcase, pulling out a package of papers, tied neatly with a blue ribbon. She pushed it across the table towards Percy. "I even did research."

There was a long pause, Percy fiddling with the ribbon. "I'm sorry…" he managed, his voice gruff, "I thought you were here to break us up."

Her hand covered his again. "I'm sorry too. I should have been clearer in my letter." Clearing her throat, she motioned to the waiter and ordered two of the chicken dishes. "I didn't think you'd consider the possibility I wanted to break you up."

Percy bit his lip, "Are you alright… with me loving Oliver. With Oliver and I … in a relationship?" 

She shrugged her shoulders, "I wasn't. I used to think it was a bit strange. Two men… loving each other." She sighed, "But I'm a Muggle. Prejudices there are different to here."

"Really?" Percy was surprised. 

"Sort of. They have prominent gay men. Films, books. There are movements, a pride movement. It is easier to get involved. Here, there's no influential sub culture. Whatever you do, you'll be one of the first. It will be hard, whatever you choose to do."

"What do you mean?" 

Hermione smiled, "I know you, Percy. You're too honest to go on hiding. If you want to tell the truth, then you'll tell it to everybody."

He sighed, "I wish Oliver understood that."

"He's always been popular," she acknowledged, "he'll find it really hard if people treat him like a social pariah."

"Whereas, I'm used to it." Percy said grimly, "that's what you're trying to say."

"Yes, I am. It's one of your strengths, and you need to play to them. Take advantage of them."

"Great, my strength lies in the fact I'm already a social pariah."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, "Don't be so defeatist. Your strength lies in the fact you already know you don't need to be the most popular person in order to be happy. You're already strong; you know it doesn't matter if some people don't like you." She smiled, "You've got a chance to do something great here, to open people's minds. Surely that's something worth fighting for."

"I'm not sure that's how everyone else will see it." Percy was fiddling with one of the complementary bread sticks. "I'm not sure I can get Oliver to agree."

"Take it slowly, he'll come around." She poured them both some more water, "You can't keep lying to everyone, it's not fair. It isn't fair on your family."

Percy undid the ribbon on Hermione's research, noting the strange mixture of Muggle and Wizarding work. There were some scrolls, neatly covered in her immaculate writing, along with some Muggle photocopies and newspaper articles. 

"They might not be very helpful," Hermione was suddenly embarrassed. "There's some information on the gay pride movement and on some support groups. Obviously they won't be much help here, but it might give you something to aim for."

"What exactly do you see me doing in the future, Hermione?" Percy laughed, "Once I'm completely ostracised from society, I mean."

"Don't joke about that, it isn't funny. Think about your family." She raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of a breadstick, "I want you to speak up for your rights, to lead the way towards equality." Hermione stopped talking as the food arrived, licking her lips as the chicken steamed in front of her, "Lovely, thank you." she nodded at the waiter. 

"Can I ask you a question? Which department are you going into in the Ministry?"

"Equal opportunities and Wizard rights, why?"

"No reason." Percy stifled a grin, and tucked into his chicken casserole, quietly hopeful.

*

"You're late." Oliver was sat on the sofa, reading _Quidditch__ Monthly for the seventeenth time. _

"I didn't think you'd be here tonight," Percy said, a little surprised, dropping Hermione's papers onto the sideboard.

Oliver shrugged, "I missed you." He smiled up at the other man, "Although I can go if you want me to…"

"Do I buggery," Percy winked, "I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

"You've perked up," Oliver said in surprise, letting Percy pull him to his feet, the Quidditch magazine falling to the floor. 

Percy waggled an eyebrow, "I know," he slid his hands under Oliver's clothes, feeling his sharp intake of breath, the warmth of his skin. 

"I'm a little bit bruised today…" Oliver admitted, hissing slightly as Percy's fingers touched a particularly sensitive spot. 

"Can I bruise you some more?" Percy asked excitedly, his fingers exploring with a practiced air.

Oliver laughed, "You're sodding insatiable, you are."

"I know… can we go to bed now? I really fancy a shag." 

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Come on then, anything for a quiet life." He grinned, taking Percy's hand. 

"You're anything but quiet, I always have to avert my eyes from the neighbours in the mornings… it's embarrassing…"

"Bugger off, you're the one who can't keep your mouth shut…"

"And wouldn't you complain if I did." Percy winked, and shut the bedroom door behind them.

* * *

To be continued…


	6. A worthy man?

**Outsiders, Part Five: _A Percy and Oliver Love Story_**

**Author's note**: Thank you for the reviews. Of course, I am avoiding writing for yet another deadline – this time my mediaeval history dissertation. 

This was written before _The Order of the Phoenix_ came out, and as such has no bearing to J.K Rowling's presentation of the character of Percy in that book. This story is set in an alternative universe where the pressure exerted by Voldemort is minimal or non-existent, and certainly has no overbearing influence on the characters. The interpretation of Percy is my opinion of how he may act in private – behind closed doors – and the struggles he faces in accepting the two opposing parts of his character. His relationship with Oliver is, to me, a facet of that inner struggle. This piece does not reflect the thoughts and beliefs of J.K Rowling or any other person or company with links to the copyright of Harry Potter. No infringement is intended.

Feedback welcomed. 

* * *

Part Six

Everything had gone very, very wrong.  

On a normal day, Percy was always more than happy to be in the office on his own; there was always a little reorganisation that he could be getting along with, a little twitch here and a little move there so that the whole team could start working more efficiently. When Oliver had last been away on tour, Percy had spent his weekends colour co-ordinating the filing cabinets and giving everyone their own card reference file to help allocate colour spots to every document. It had whiled away the hours quite satisfactorily. Admittedly, it hadn't gone down _that_ well; the disgruntled looks on his colleagues' faces on Monday morning hadn't quite been the affirmation he'd required, but they'd soon got used to it. Then they'd thanked him. Anyway, Percy reasoned, no one in their right mind would turn down a whole day using stickers. Stickers were always fun. 

But this wasn't a normal day. Percy had been allocated the job of re-classifying all recently archived diplomatic administration to incorporate the recent decision to re-categorise Yorkshire in terms of its four districts, north, east, south and west. This was an opportunity Percy had been hoping for since the decision was made; this was a clear chance to put his stamp on the thoroughly un-logical ministry archives. But Percy found he couldn't concentrate, and that annoyed him. It wasn't every day you got to spend a day in the dark, sombre archives unit. It should have been a wonderful opportunity for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to get out of the office, but Percy couldn't stop his mind from wandering. Oliver was away for a couple of days with his Quidditch team to play a friendly in Iceland, and Oliver hadn't wanted Percy to accompany him. 

"It would look too suspicious, Perce," he'd said apologetically, "how many Quidditch players do you know who take their best mates away with them?"

"I'm not your best mate," Percy had muttered belligerently, helping himself to a packet of hula hoops and sliding a chocolate frog across the counter towards Oliver. "I like to think I'm more than that to you."

"Yeah, I know, but they don't know that, do they?" Oliver leaned forward for a curly wurly as well.

"Well, perhaps it's about time they did."

"Percy, come on, be reasonable. I'd kiss away any chance I had of playing for the first team if I brought my boyfriend along with me."

"I don't see why you would. The other players take their girlfriends." Percy was drumming his fingers on the table, always a sure sign of future petulance.

Oliver had sighed, "I wish you'd get over this." He'd put the kettle on for some coffee, "It's only for a few days and I'll be back before you know it."

"That's not the point, and you know it. I'm sick of lying to everyone, and more than that, I'm sick of your career being more important than our happiness. You won't tell anyone about me in case it buggers up your chances of playing Quidditch. Well, perhaps I'm just not satisfied with that anymore." Percy's face was getting redder by the moment, his anger palpable as he leant back against the stove.

"Well, what the bloody hell do you want me to do about it?" Oliver shook his head, "Give up Quidditch?"

"Don't be so sodding obtuse." Percy narrowed his eyes in disbelief, "I want you tell the truth about us. I want people to know that I love you."

There was a long pause; Oliver gripping the back of the kitchen chair until his knuckles grew white, Percy staring despondently at the coffee pot on the side. 

Oliver's fingers trembled as he picked up his jacket from the table. "I'm sorry, Percy." His voice shook with anger. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned to go. "I'm sorry, but I don't want anyone to know about you and me."

*

And that was how they'd left it. Oliver had left the flat that night and Percy hadn't seen him since. There had been a note pushed under the door the following morning, left whilst Percy was out at work. It was no explanation, just a couple of sentences: __

_Try to understand it from my point of view. I'll be in touch as soon as I'm back from Iceland. We'll have dinner. Oliver x_

Percy didn't want to understand it from any other point of view. At some point in the last few days, a line had been crossed and there was no going back. Percy had never contemplated the possibility that Oliver was ashamed of him; he'd always assumed his reticence in coming forward was grounded entirely in the fear of the unknown. He'd always thought that Oliver was just the same as him – wanting to be honest but not knowing how to do it without hurting the people that they loved. The bare facts of the matter were that Oliver was ashamed of their relationship, and Percy wasn't prepared to accept that. 

But at the same time, the logical consequence was too much to bear. Breaking up with Oliver would destroy the only real, true happiness that Percy had ever truly experienced. Even being without him for just these few days had caused an unremitting ache that Percy wasn't prepared to contemplate continuing for any longer than strictly necessary. It would be some cross to bear, carrying on without Oliver. 

There was little comfort to be gleaned from the pristine organisation that haunted every other aspect of Percy's life. The archives could have been perfect, but they wouldn't help remove the albatross that Percy could already feel tightening around his neck. He was tired, it was late, and he missed Oliver. Percy sighed, blinking in the dusky evening light. All the recent administration was pristine, and it was time to go home. If only him and Oliver could be rejuvenated with a few colourful stickers and some radical shades of ink. 

*

"What is it?" Oliver asked, finally, after doubtfully poking at it with his fork.

Oliver had got back from Iceland early the following morning, sending an owl to Percy asking if they could meet. Percy had decided to try out his culinary skills once more, and had spent nigh on two hours preparing dinner; all the time trying to decide what to say to the man he loved. His mind being elsewhere hadn't boded well for the food. 

Percy narrowed his eyes, gazing in some disbelief at his plate. "It is supposed to be braised brisket with boiled potatoes and mange tout."

Oliver raised an eyebrow and tried poking it again. "What sort of animal is a 'braised brisket'?" he asked, leaning across the table towards Percy.

"I'm not entirely sure," Percy admitted, attempting to cut his with a knife. The blade didn't even make an indentation. "There wasn't much left to choose from when I got to the butchers. I think it might be beef."

"I don't think it's like any beef I've ever known."

"I might be wrong," Percy was staring in some concern at his dinner plate as a potato rolled slowly past him, narrowly avoiding his glass of water.

"Sorry Percy," Oliver hurriedly lent over and picked his potato up, attempting once more to stab it with his fork. It had quite clearly never seen the boiling that Percy had promised. 

"You don't have to eat it." Resignedly, Percy pushed his plate into the middle of the table. "It's awful."

"It's not awful," Oliver lied, crunching a small piece of potato. "You get more nutrients if you leave the vegetables al dente."

"They're not al dente, they're raw."

Oliver grinned, putting his fork down. "You're right, I capitulate. It's awful. You are a terrible cook." Pulling his chair back, he picked up their plates, "Shall I knock us up some pasta?"

"No," Percy touched his arm, nodding towards the vacated seat. "Sit down."

"It won't take a minute, it could be boiling whilst…" Oliver's voice trailed away. Percy wasn't smiling.

"I don't want you cooking in my kitchen," Percy said slowly, a muscle beating periodically in his cheek, "I _can't_ have you cooking for me anymore. Not until we both know where we stand on a few things. I said you could come over because we have to talk. Not so things could carry on just the way they did before." 

Oliver blinked, leaning across the table for Percy's hand, "Look, Perce, I'm sorry about what I said, you know, before I went away. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Well, you did. Did you just think that you'd come back and everything would be alright? What you said changed everything." Percy pulled away from Oliver's touch, terrified of what he was admitting. "You made me realise something. We can't go on like this anymore, I'm too honest a person to go on lying." He took a deep breath, wanting his voice to stop shaking, "So, I've made a decision. I'm going to tell the truth, I'm going to tell my parents about me and what I am." He avoided Oliver's eyes, his gaze resting haphazardly on the red and white tablecloth.

"Are you… are you going to tell them about me?" There was no belying the fear in Oliver's eyes, or the sad resolution that clouded Percy's as he realised Oliver's priorities.

"Not if you don't want me to." Percy couldn't believe he was so calm; he had run this moment over and over in his head, and the inevitability of the conclusion was beginning to dawn on him.

"I don't." Oliver's palms were sweating; he wiped them on his jeans.

"Fine. And if my parents ask why you don't visit any more, I'll just have to say you're unhappy with my sexuality." 

"I'm not going to visit them anymore?" Oliver's lip wobbled, his brain catching up with the reality of the situation. Percy wasn't going to put up with waiting around for him to change his mind any longer. 

Why couldn't Oliver see that this was the only way? "I can't stay in a hidden relationship any more, Ol. It's driving me berserk. It's come to the end of the line. I love you, Oliver. I love you more than anyone else, but it isn't enough to make me lie to everybody else I love any more. I want them to know about me… about us. About you and me." Percy grabbed hold of Oliver's hand, feeling the calluses and rough skin that was as familiar to him as his own skin. "Please… I'm begging you. Do it with me. Stay with me."

"I can't." Oliver could feel Percy shaking, could see the effort it was taking for him to keep it together, and it broke Oliver's heart. "I'm so sorry… I just can't."

"Please…" Percy cupped Oliver's face, slowly stroking his thumb down the soft cheek, "Please don't be ashamed of me." His face crumpled, tears escaping and mingling with his freckles.

A sob escaped Oliver's throat, "I love you so much," he muttered, pulling Percy close, into a tight hug. Percy's whole body shook, and for a second, he hugged Oliver back, rejoicing in the familiar contours of his lover's body. 

Percy pulled away, tears sliding down his face, hiccupping, "You don't love me enough."

"Percy…"

"You don't love me enough to risk everything for me." 

"I do love you, you know that. I don't want to be ashamed of you… of us," Oliver took a deep breath, desperately trying to hold himself together, "but I just can't… I can't give you what you need. I'm so sorry…"

*

When Percy got home from work the following evening, the flat felt different. Percy dropped his keys on the coffee table, his aged leather case following a moment after. For a long moment, he stared around the flat, wondering what was different. Why did it feel so empty? There were no magazines overflowing from the coffee table onto the sofa and all over the floor; no slightly whiffy bag of sports kits overflowing as it inched its way towards the kitchen. No mars bar wrappers sticking out from between the sofa cushions, no jumpers or hats or scarves or trainers littering Percy's nice clean floor. 

No Oliver. 

Oliver must have come over to collect his stuff from the flat whilst Percy was at work, Percy realised, his legs shaking. Was every room as empty as this one, he wondered, his heart beating wildly as he headed towards the bedroom. The door was shut, and although his hand rested on the door handle, Percy couldn't open it. He just couldn't bring himself to take a look around the room that for so long had meant nothing but warmth and love and happiness. 

The kitchen couldn't have those connotations, could it? Percy leant back against the wall of the hall, his fingers pressing hard as he struggled with himself. Get used to it, he told himself severely, this is your flat. Your home. Oliver isn't coming back. Chocolate. That would be a good step forward. At least if he was eating chocolate he wasn't thinking about anything else. 

At the kitchen door, Percy felt his heart stop. Clutching the door frame until his fingers ached, he stared into the room, his mind frantically trying to erase what he'd just seen. _Please, no. I'm sorry. Come back. _Slowly, resolutely, Percy walked across the room, sinking down onto the wide windowsill, his brow resting on the cool pane. It was black and dark outside, but Percy couldn't see the stars. 

On the kitchen table was a single yellow rose, Percy's favourite, lying beside the broken remnants of Oliver's Puddlemere United mug and a set of keys. Oliver's keys. 

It was true. Oliver had left him.

*


	7. The right thing to do

Author's Note: Am sooo sick of fighting the formatting here, it's unbelievable. I'll upload something and it'll look lovely, and then I'll pop back to have a look at it and it is all full of bizarre symbols. Grrrr. So, basically, if you want a nice, polite, un-pissed off Angel Interceptor, or if you want me to acknowledge your review, or you want to nag me about continuing quicker, then commenting over at my livejournal is probably a good idea: its on livejournal dot com and the username is sunsetmog - that should work. 

~ Part Seven ~

The owl from his parents was no surprise; they invited him to Sunday lunch every couple of weeks. As usual, the invitation included Oliver, and for a moment, Percy bit back the tears. If he didn't constantly remind himself, his body was quite efficient at forgetting that Oliver was no longer a feature of Percy's life. Whenever he tried to sleep, he reached out for Oliver, the tears spilling when he remembered Oliver was far out of his reach. He'd been shocked by just what little things could set him off – a bourbon biscuit crumb which had to be Oliver's because only Oliver ever bought them – relishing the three-stage tactic when it came to eating them, top, cream, bottom. He'd cried for an hour before realising the crumb was in fact a rather large lump of grit. A note on the front of the fridge – _buy more chocolate­_ – which was so old that Oliver himself had attacked it with his wand, performing a sticking spell so that Percy would never miss it when he was writing his beautifully ordered, multi-coloured shopping lists. A beautifully ordered, multi-coloured shopping list had caused him to be an hour late for work that morning, sobbing as he remembered Oliver's amazed hysterics on finding it. 

"Why do you use fourteen different coloured pens, Perce?"

"Because there are fourteen different aisles at the supermarket, Oliver." Percy had replied patiently, adding 'lentils' with a red pen. 

"And this is so you don't miss anything and shock-horror have to go up an aisle twice?" this was followed by a choking noise which Oliver explained as a cough but was subsequently followed by tears of laughter escaping down Oliver's face.  

What was funniest, Percy privately acknowledged, was that he spent long arduous hours buying sensible things like barley and fresh lemons and sage, when he was perfectly well aware that he burnt or destroyed almost every thing he ever tried to cook. It was amazing he'd managed to survive this long – but that was down to his mum, Hogwarts, Penelope and then Oliver. He'd never been on his own before. 

Percy closed his eyes, briefly massaging his temples as he sank down onto the sofa. His duvet was still there from that morning, because he hadn't been able to go into the bedroom since Oliver had left. He was surviving entirely on the clothes that had been drying over the heater whilst Oliver was in Iceland. Not that there had been much sleeping going on – quite a lot of moping and an awfully large amount of feeling sorry for himself and a bit of chocolate eating, but not much sleeping. It would explain the headache he'd been fighting for the last three days, and why he didn't remember much from the office. He'd been going in, that was for sure… he'd sat at his desk and stared at his in-tray for a bit, and had some coffee so he didn't fall asleep. Some people talked to him sometimes, but he wasn't sure if he'd bothered replying or not. They'd certainly given up in the end. Somebody had brought him a sandwich that lunchtime but he was buggered if he could remember who or what it was. Work had been discreetly slipped out of his in-tray and into someone else's (they thought he hadn't noticed that, but really, he couldn't bring himself to care). Even Lucy had asked him if there was anything she could do, which was tantamount to having his pain tattooed on his forehead, because Lucy's radar was a difficult thing to penetrate in any normal situation. He'd shaken his head, mumbling, "I'll be fine."

And fine he would be, if he could just concentrate on taking over the world rather than on a dirty-blonde, lithe, rather sexy Quidditch player who had just left him and destroyed what little security he had left. Well, 'left' perhaps wouldn't be the right word to use, Percy reasoned with himself. 'Pushed' perhaps, or 'dismissed'. Whichever word is actually most accurate is of little importance, as Percy is well aware that Oliver's leaving was precipitated by Percy asking him to. 

His boss had taken him to one side and asked him if he wanted to take any holidays. He'd said no automatically, because he was saving his holidays up to take Oliver to lake Geneva in six months time as a surprise. He'd not linked Oliver not being there with the fact that there was no longer a necessity to save up his holidays, and hadn't realised his mistake until he'd returned home to his empty flat. 

It was late, and no doubt his parents' owl had been tapping its feet on the window ledge for quite some time before Percy had let him in, the animal nipping him in irritation as he did so. He'd sat at his desk long after his colleagues had left for the evening, some passing his desk in a mixture of wonder and despair. Percy had for so long been utterly dependable, the man always chosen for extra work. For a long time, some of his workmates had been waiting eagerly for the day something broke him, but the reality of seeing him crumpled and unshaven, staring for hours at nothing had moved even the most jealous to a curious form of sympathy. The house elves had been cleaning around him that evening, muttering spurious comments between themselves as Percy stared on, oblivious. His stomach rumbled, an ominous reminder that the kitchen had been off-limits since the discovery of the rose and Oliver's favourite mug, broken. The last thing on his mind was the imminent confrontation with his family, but somewhere on the edge of his tired mind was the logical part of his brain, nudging him, muttering that the break-up would all have been for nothing if Percy didn't take the bull by the horns and tell the truth. He scribbled a hasty reply in his immaculate handwriting, accepting for himself. There was no mention of Oliver. Attaching the note, he bade Errol goodnight. 

*

Sunday turned out to be a grim morning; the rain lashed against his windows, the sky rolled from grey to dark grey. Percy was doing the only thing he could think of to combat such a dark portent - he was ironing. He'd been ironing for hours, the table next to the fire covered in neat piles of ordered clothes. When the iron showed signs of cooling down, he waved his wand and began again, smoothing creases in all his pyjamas and revelling in the familiar steamy sizzle as he pressed one pair of underpants after another. He'd ironed his whole drawer of identical duck-egg blue shirts again, fearing that their prolonged respite in his wardrobe may have had a detrimental effect on their smoothness. Stopping a second to wipe a hand across his frazzled, freckled brow, Percy hazarded a guess as to just how long he'd been stood there. He ventured an approximate time of starting as about half past three that morning, but as the sky had remained dark it was of little relevance to look out of the window. 

It was only a matter of time before he had to apparate to the Burrow. With a grim smile bordering on hysteria, Percy made his way to the bathroom.

*

"Hello, love," Molly was in the kitchen, waving her wand over a great bowl of dough. A wooden spoon danced through the mixture as she slowly added milk.

"Hello Mum." Percy sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his aching shoulder muscles. He had knots on knots and was desperate for a massage. At the moment however, that was the least of his worries. 

"Your father is in the garden – him and the boys have been setting up some sort of aerial runway across the lawn; Harry assures me its perfectly safe but I always say if there's room for a safety net it can never do any harm…" Molly turned to smile at him, a smudge of flour on her nose. "Can you just pass me the butter, please?"

Percy glanced around the kitchen and caught sight of the butter in its earthenware dish on the table. Silently, he brought it across the kitchen, leaning back against the counter next to his mum. 

"Thank you." Molly took a spoonful and added it to the pan on the stove, waving across a spatula to spread it across the base with her wand. "Is Oliver not with you today?" 

"No." Percy took a deep breath, "Look Mum, there's something I wanted to talk to you about…"

"Hello son," Arthur came in through the back door, stamping the mud off his wellies on the back step. The rain had decided to hold off for an hour or two, and if Percy knew his family that usually meant that everyone headed outside for some fresh air. "I'm sure your mother's told you but we've got a runway going across the garden, you should go and have a look." There was a long, protracted yell from outside, followed by a splash and a thud. "It needs a little tweaking, perhaps," Arthur explained, hurriedly shutting the kitchen door to distract Mrs Weasley away from the sight of George knee deep in mud at the bottom of the rope runway. 

"Not now, Arthur, I'm sure Percy knows better than to go and get himself all muddy and wet before dinner. Anyway, Percy was just saying he wanted to talk to me about something. What was it, dear?" Molly was spooning the dough into bun trays for Yorkshire puddings as the bowl hovered in mid air.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you both."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, "Have you been working too hard again? He looks tired, doesn't he Molly, looks like he could do with getting home from the office earlier once in a while."

Molly looked her son up and down, "Your father's right, my dear, work isn't everything. You should relax a bit more, go out and enjoy yourself – you won't be young forever."

Percy sighed, "I'm not working too hard, Mum." It was like this every time he came home, 'Are you getting enough vegetables, when was the last time you did some exercise, are you taking regular breaks and getting enough chocolate'. "I've got to talk to you both about something important."

"Oh yes," Molly raised an eyebrow, nudging the oven door open. She slipped the Yorkshire puddings in under the chicken, and went back to the sink full of potatoes. 

"It's about me. Me and women, and well, men." Percy blushed, and suddenly found the need to examine his fingernails in great detail as both Molly and Arthur turned to stare at him. "It's something that I've been meaning to talk to you about for a while now."

"Go on," Arthur said slowly, sitting down. 

Percy closed his eyes, counted to three, and opened his mouth. "I'm gay."

Molly laughed, "Don't be silly, you're just saying that because the right woman hasn't come along."

"That's right son, we all get a bit desperate when it's been a while since we've been in a relationship."

"I don't want a woman," Percy explained quietly, fighting the urge to inform his parents he _had _been in a relationship, thank you very much; he may be anal and value order above all else, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was entirely incapable of finding a mate, "I don't find them attractive. I'm attracted to other men."

His mum blanched, and turned back to her potatoes, "Don't be ridiculous, Percy, I don't know why you're saying such things." Without bothering with the wand, she picked up the knife herself and began to peel one of the larger jerseys, her fingers trembling as she dug out an eye. 

"What about Penelope?" his father asked, running his fingers through his unwieldy hair. "You were going out with her, weren't you?"

Percy nodded, trying to ignore the thumping suspicion that perhaps Oliver had been right all along. Families weren't put on this earth to know the ins and outs of their children's sex lives. 

A bead of sweat was pearling on Arthur's upper lip, "Well? She didn't look like a man to me, or was that just something you weren't telling us?"

"Don't be so preposterous." Percy sighed, "We were good together, but I had to break it off with her because I knew I could never love her like… like…"

"Like a proper man would," his father ground out.

"Dad…"

"Don't you 'Dad' me; what sort of thing have I brought up?" Arthur's raised voice brought an abrupt end to the shouts from outside; a cacophony of voices stilled in an instant. 

"Arthur!" Molly spun round from the sink, "Don't say such things. He's our son!"

"Well we certainly went wrong somewhere along the line, didn't we!" Arthur tugged at the collar of his jumper, loosening the top button on his shirt. "We must have done something to make him like this…"

"Dad… I'm not like this because of something you and Mum have done; it's just how I feel. I can't help my feelings."

"Feelings about what?" the kitchen door had swung open to reveal five curious, freckled faces, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George and a mud-spattered Harry. 

"Your brother has had to tell us something," Molly was roughly drying her hands on the tea towel, the potatoes still half peeled in the sink, "Your brother was just telling us how he prefers men," she hiccupped, her eyes filling with tears, "about how he's a homosexual."

Five pairs of eyes unanimously turned towards Percy, who blushed unceremoniously, his fingers tracing the pattern on the tablecloth.

"You're a what?" Ron raised an eyebrow. Harry, wide-eyed, began to edge slowly out of the room, feeling suddenly very much out of place.

Percy blushed crimson. Oliver was most definitely one-hundred-percent right. No family member was ever, ever going to know anything about his sex life ever again.  "A homosexual." He muttered, forcing himself to meet Ron's amazed stare. _I haven't got anything to be ashamed of_, he repeated to himself. "I prefer men."

"To what?" Fred sneered, "It's not as if you get any action anyway, Percy. You're just swapping from nothing to nothing."

"Fred…" Percy held out his hand, "Don't be like that, I haven't changed, I'm just the same Percy I've always been."

"Get stuffed, it's bloody disgusting what you lot get up to."

"Shut up," Ginny hissed, staring wide-eyed at her mother, who was sobbing quietly in the corner, "Don't make it worse."

"I don't think it could be worse," George muttered gloomily, sinking down next to his father at the kitchen table, "What are people going to say about us now?"

"That you're all making a fuss about nothing?" Hermione shook her head, pulling out of her duffel coat and dropping her bag on the table. She'd obviously just arrived. "There's nothing changed about Percy, he's just the same man who came for dinner last Sunday, the same Percy who used to be head boy, the same Percy he's always been. Nothing has changed."

Percy shot her a grateful smile. 

"A fuss about nothing?" Fred shook his head, "This isn't nothing, this is our brother admitting he's one of _them_; it's horrible."

"One of what?" Hermione raised her eyebrows, "One of the slug people? The androids? I thought better of you, Fred, thought you were a little more tolerant."

Ron bit his lip, glancing quickly from his mother, head in her hands next to the sink, to his father, fiddling with his collar whilst staring at the teapot. Hermione was going too far; his parents wouldn't stand for any criticism of their children in their house. "Come on Hermione, I'll carry your stuff upstairs," he said quickly, leaping across the room to shut his girlfriend up. 

"Wha.., No Ron, I want to make them see sense! They're all being really stupid about this…" 

Ron grabbed her by the elbow and frogmarched her out of the kitchen, hissing "Shut up!" at her. "This isn't the time or the place." He muttered, relaxing his grip a little. 

"See what you've started?" Arthur stared across at his son, his eyes cold, "See what trouble you've caused by becoming a homosexual?"

"You don't _become_ a homosexual, Dad, you are one." Percy was equally cool, but the muscle pulsing in his neck and his sweating palms gave him away, "It's not a career choice, it isn't something I choose to be. It's what I am, and you're just going to have to get used to it."

"Well I'm never going to get used to it," Fred muttered, his eyes narrow. "That's not something I'm ever going to accept, and you're just going to have to get used to that."

"Boys!" Molly sobbed, "Please… don't say anything you might regret." 

"I think that's already been said, don't you?" George shook his head, staring sadly at his older brother, "I'm going upstairs to clean up. Are you coming, Fred?"

Fred didn't even look across to where Percy was standing, wide-eyed and angry, before storming out of the kitchen after his brother.

"I think that is a very good idea, boys." Arthur ran a tired hand through his hair, shaking his head in disgust at his son. "I hope you're pleased with yourself, Percy." 

"I've done nothing wrong, Dad," Percy repeated, sighing, "This is just something you're going to have to get used to. It isn't going to change; I'm gay." 

Arthur made a noise that sounded something like a strangled hiccup, and moved across to his wife, slipping an arm around her shaking shoulders. "You've upset your mother," he said quietly, his arm tightening around Molly, "That's unacceptable, Percy."

"I didn't mean to upset her." Percy said quietly, "I know that this is a shock for you, Mum, and I'm sorry. But I haven't done anything wrong. I can't help the way that I feel. I'm sorry if that is hard for you both to take in."

"What are the neighbours going to say?" Molly mumbled, fishing for a handkerchief from up her sleeve, "How am I going to face them?"

Percy could feel himself getting annoyed, and he wished Oliver were here to hold his hand. Well actually, he corrected himself; he wished Oliver were here to stand by him, to present a united front. But that wasn't going to happen, and Percy just had to accept it. He was on his own, and he'd done it so as not to continue lying to his family. So he wasn't bloody going to give up this easily; there had been too much at stake. "I suppose you'll face them in the same way you did when Fred and George handed out those buns that made all our friends' faces swell up," Percy told her, "or when Ron crashed his broom into Mrs Macgregor's delphiniums. Or when Ginny pulled up Mr Johnson's prize cabbages. You just get on with it. You say, that's my son, and I'm proud of him. I love him just the way he is." His voice was getting louder, and Molly was already glancing this way and that just in case anyone could hear him. "Mum," he lowered his voice, "If you love me at all, you're just going to have to accept this."

"Don't go issuing ultimatums to us, Percy," Arthur shook his head, "Who do you think you are?" 

"Hush, Arthur." Molly shushed her husband.

"Your son." Percy began to pull on his coat again, trying to disguise the fact that his hands were blue and shaking. "I didn't mean to disappoint you," he said, quietly, "and Mum, I never meant to make you cry."

"Where are you going?" Molly asked, snivelling and wiping her eyes.

"Home." Percy said, and his eyes were bright and wet, "I think you need some time to get used to the idea of me being gay."

"When will we see you again?" Molly pulled away from her husband, trying to come to terms with her son's news. "Will you be alright?"

"I don't know." Percy was fumbling, doing up his buttons with trembling hands, "and again, I don't know." His eyes met his mother's, and for a brief second, he wished he'd never mentioned his sexuality, for now her eyes were guarded, and wet, and confused. And he'd been the one to do that… it hurt. "It took a lot for me to come here today, and to tell you… but you deserved to know. I couldn't keep on lying to you, it wouldn't be fair."

"Well… promise me you'll look after yourself, Percy," Molly was crying again, and this time, she pulled Percy to her, and he felt her breath against his cheek. "Take care of yourself, and make sure you're eating properly. You're too thin."

"I promise, Mum." Percy hugged her back, and he longed to be young again, to accept this hug as unconditional, as a symbol of his parents' love for him, but now he knew differently. He knew that this was a turning point in his life, and that from now on, nothing would be the same again.

"Aye," his father was staring at him, and his expression was stony, "Perhaps it is best if you go."

"Arthur…" Molly pulled away from her son and turned to her husband, "Don't let him leave like this; he's our son."

Arthur wouldn't meet Percy's eyes. "He's not the son I thought he was." He said quietly, turning away.

Something inside of Percy shattered, and the pain was more than he thought he could bear.

* 

Two hours later, and Percy was curled up on his sofa, his hands clutching a half- full glass of whisky. Slowly, he tipped the liquid from side to side, watching as the whisky found its own level with every movement. He was cold, inside and out, and he knew he'd achieved nothing. He'd given up everything that he loved, and what had he got to show for it? A cold, dark flat and hands mottled from the cold. It hadn't turned out like he had expected it to; none of it had. When he imagined the day he told his parents, he imagined him and Oliver, together, and a peaceful acceptance of inevitability by his family. Perhaps even the casual 'we always knew, love'. But not for Percy, such accidental happiness. As Percy sank lower into the couch, he knew he was condemned to loneliness, and it broke his heart.


	8. The Quidditch Match

Outsiders: Part Eight of Ten

by Sunsetmog

Other fiction can be found at livejournal dot com slash sunsetmogfics

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of J.K.Rowling and her publishers. No infringement or harm is intended.

Beta by KrakenWakes.

* * *

The last people Oliver expected to see at a Puddlemere United friendly match were Fred and George Weasley. Well actually, if he thought about it long and hard, there were other people he would less expect to see at a Puddlemere United friendly match; people like his Grandmother or even Dumbledore; but that was beside the point. Oliver spotted the twins at about the same time as he was blindsided by a well-aimed bludger; in the inordinately long time it took him to fall the fifteen feet to the ground, his scrambled, double-visioned brain had made out four identical gangly red heads on the sidelines. Once he'd actually landed on the ground, groaning slightly, and staring up at the sky with a bemused expression on his face, he'd shaken his head and hoped to God that the four heads he had seen on his passage down were the twins, otherwise he was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally thought.

Oliver was playing like shite. He'd clearly left his defensive skills at home, and he'd let in goal after goal from the vastly superior Dagenham Warriors (ranked seventh in the Quidditch first division, four time winners of Best Quidditch League team in the last decade). Puddlemere United hadn't even reached the upper echelons of the second division in the previous season, and Oliver's dismal performance as reserve keeper over the previous few weeks would just about guarantee his permanent relegation from the first team. He was wondering what sort of job he could possibly choose now his Quidditch career was virtually over, and contemplating what qualifications were required to become a full time gardener when a bludger whizzed past his head and through the hoop.

"Shit." Oliver closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He hadn't even seen it coming. Too depressed even to blush, Oliver attempted to drown out the catcalls and the chants of 'Wood's going home in a bloody ambulance' by half-heartedly swooping around his own defence. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Weasley twins with their arms folded, frowning.

They did not look happy at all, and for a fleeting moment, Oliver wondered whether they'd come here to take turns to punch him for breaking up with Percy. But, he reasoned with himself, Percy had promised to keep Oliver's name out of all conversations regarding Percy's sexuality, and Percy _never _broke a promise. Nevertheless, he couldn't quell the cold feeling which was currently snaking its way down his chest. His mind wandered to where Percy was, and the ache of longing and loneliness he'd been attempting to quell set up its undulating thump in his chest. It had been sixteen days since he'd last seen Percy; fifteen days since he'd cleared the majority of his belongings out of Percy's flat. Fifteen days since he'd thrown that mug across the kitchen floor and watched it shatter, the regret hitting him immediately. Percy had bought that Puddlemere United mug for him, a couple of weeks after they finally established that what they were embarking upon was a fully blown, adult relationship.

"It's so you've got something to drink out of," Percy had explained with a blush.

Oliver hadn't known how to react to such a gift, so had grinned, and pulled open Percy's beautifully ordered and immaculate kitchen cupboards, indicating the rows of identical, spotless, duck egg blue mugs and matching plates. "Is your crockery too good for me or something?" he'd asked, wondering out loud if his next gift was to be a personalised plate and cutlery set.

"No… of course not, I just wanted…"

"Shut up, Perce," Oliver had laughed, and grabbed hold of Percy's belt loop, pulling him closer, "I'm touched." And then, as he'd kissed the end of Percy's freckled nose, he'd murmured, "Overwhelmed, actually."

Percy had smiled, shyly, and his hands had slid around Oliver's waist. "I'm glad you like it," he'd said quietly, his lips grazing Oliver's, Oliver's breath warm against his, "I wanted you to be at home here."

Oliver had pulled Percy even closer, surprised. Percy had never purported to be much of a Quidditch fan and apart from that one moment when Griffindor had succeeded in finally wrenching the Quidditch cup away from the sweaty grasp of their rivals (where Percy had forgotten where he was for a split second and jumped up and down in public), Oliver had long been of the opinion that Percy's awareness of the sport was of the same type as, say, his awareness of the existence of pirates or rabbits. Nothing more than a dim recognition, catalogued somewhere deep in the recesses of Percy's brain, shut behind a door with a red cross on it, meaning 'no daily relevance – no necessity for stickers or different coloured inks'. Oliver had thought this to be especially true since Percy had left school, for everyday conversation about Quidditch was no longer a part of Percy's life. The revelation that Percy not only actively acknowledged the existence of Quidditch, but also knew where the Puddlemere United merchandise shop was, had come as a nice surprise to Oliver, (who had previously considered the possibility that he may have to explain his job to Percy with the aid of flashcards and diagrams). Secondly, Oliver was aware that Percy offering him his own mug was tantamount to him offering a second set of keys and asking him to be his next of kin, such was Percy's determinedly private nature when it came to his personal space and possessions. To Oliver, who was generally considered useful only if somebody required a hoop defended, or a broomstick polished, such ready acceptance was almost enough to make a grown man well up. Or, in Oliver's case, enough to demand a post present-giving shag in order that he could enjoy a post-sex cup of tea out of his new mug.

"Want to come polish my broomstick, Perce?" he'd asked, with a waggle of his eyebrows in what he'd thought was a thoroughly suggestive manner.

Considering Percy's reaction had been something akin to hysterical laughter – the kind where you start to cry, and your nose runs, and when you stop you're red and hyperventilating, Oliver had surmised that what he'd thought to be thoroughly suggestive had just looked like a nervous twitch. He had decided the best way to combat such a reaction was to sigh, blush redder than a very red thing, sling Percy over his shoulder (and pretend that he wasn't ready to drop under the weight – he was a _man_, and men could do such lifting exercises without collapsing in a muddy, broken puddle) and stride (wobble, slowly) into the bedroom and demand a shag.

The mug christening shag had escalated into post-shag tea drinking celebrations, which had then escalated into post-tea-drinking 'I'm thirsty Percy, take the edge off it for me' celebratory sexual activity.

And then, in one moment, Oliver had slung the mug across the room and watched it smash.

The match ended with the commentators discussing something along the lines of 'a terrible defeat for Puddlemere United… not what was required at all… Wood's mind somewhere other than the job', to which Oliver blushed red and swooped off the field, trying to ignore the jibes and hand gestures.

The changing rooms weren't much better; his manager shaking his head and sinking onto the bench, not even bothering tear strips off Oliver for his humiliating performance. It wouldn't have been worth it; Oliver's mind was most certainly not on the job. It was somewhere off with duck egg blue mugs and post-shag cups of tea. All the same, Oliver knew before he even got as far as the showers that he wouldn't be playing first team Quidditch again any time soon. As he stood and listlessly scrubbed himself down with cheap, oil-smelling soap, with the hot water running over him and his skin turning to a boiled lobster red, he contemplated what it was that he'd do now. Puddlemere United wouldn't give him the sack; there would just be no more matches until the end of the season and then his name would be on the transfer list for sure. And considering his recent history on the pitch, it was highly unlikely that any team would be putting in a bid for Oliver Wood.

The team were quiet; each player aware that they had been responsible for their fair share of the crushing defeat, but the real scorn was left for Oliver.

"You might have played better if you left your broomstick at home," one of the beaters muttered, as Oliver had been rooting through his bag for his calendula cream (Madam Hooch had sworn by it) to put on the rather large bruise currently taking shape across his face.

"Bugger off, Macbride," Oliver had shot back, not in the mood.

He stalked off out of the room without a backward glance or another word, and ran straight into the Weasley twins outside.

"You played like shit," Fred informed him, holding out a packet of boiled sweets.

"Thanks," Oliver reached for a sweet before realising that he was probably taking his life into his hands in doing so, and hurriedly dropped it back into the bag. He looked at the twins suspiciously, wondering if they knew about him and Percy. They didn't appear to be acting out of sorts… Oliver sighed. He didn't have a clue. Just go with it, and hope for the best, he told himself finally. He was thinking of adopting that as his mantra, except for the fact it didn't have the same clout as Percy's _Verita, Always, Verita_. Only Oliver could never remember the Latin, so it came out as some curious English-Latin hybrid.

"They're alright, these sweets," George told him, "Just picked 'em up at the stall by the toilets." And just to prove the truth of the matter, George helped himself to a red one. "Go on, you probably need the sugar boost anyway."

Oliver picked out a green one, because frankly, what did it matter if he did grow a third ear or turn into a newt. At least he'd have something a bit interesting to contend with, for a change. And it was about time Oliver remembered what courage looked like. He squared his shoulders.

"Wanna come to the pub?" Fred asked, slapping Oliver across his (bruised) shoulder. "You look like you could do with a pint."

"Not round here," Oliver shook his head; "I'll probably be lynched for disservices to Quidditch after today's performance."

"Fine. We'll apparate to the Green Dragon. I like it better there anyway; they do a mean pie and mash."

The pub was freezing cold and dark. Oliver narrowed his eyes, having never been before, but Fred and George just pushed him over the threshold and towards the muggle bar. The landlord nodded at the twins and muttered, "Go on through, lads," to which Fred and George nodded sinisterly and headed through a heavy red curtain to the back room.

Oliver nodded. This was more like it. The room was dark, despite the last vestiges of afternoon still remaining outside, but mostly because heavy curtains covered the windows and candles burnt on every surface. Dark, heavy frames littered the walls, and old Quidditch teams and school groups stared out at him, some managing to look entirely constipated, as is always the way with older photos, where smiling was something _other_ people did.

Fred and George ordered butter beers and pie and mash three times, and then headed to the smallest table in the corner.

"Where's that bloody drink," Oliver grumbled, taking the seat nearest the fireplace. "I'm parched."

"It's coming, it's coming." George punched him on the arm, "Stop acting so desperate."

Oliver narrowed his eyes, rubbing his arm. "That was my bruise, you…"

"Boys, boys." Fred raised his eyebrows, "Enough of the histrionics. You're disturbing the other customers."

Oliver took a look around, "Um, Fred, We _are_ the other customers. This place is empty."

"Exactly. And you're disturbing me. So shut it, both of you."

Oliver shrugged, and before he could help himself, "How are your Mum and Dad?"

A shadow flitted across Fred's face, and a small fist of fear slowly clenched in Oliver's stomach. "They're alright." Fred said shortly, closing his mouth as the bar maid appeared with their drinks.

"If you count 'alright' as meaning 'a bit bloody awful really'," George added gloomily, taking a gulp of his beer.

The fist of fear was expanding with every second. Oliver gripped his pint hard, and tried not to make eye contact with the twins. He needed to get out of here, fast, before he found out anything else slightly inflammatory. He decided to make up a previous engagement. Fast.

"I suppose you know all about it." Fred nudged Oliver, and reached for his pint, "and you probably feel just the same as we do about it. "

Oliver's palm sweated, and to save himself the embarrassment of dropping the beer all over his lap, he deposited it back on the table with a hefty clump.

"Yeah," George nodded, not seeming to notice Oliver's discomfort, and appearing not to hear the heavy thump of Oliver's heartbeat, which seemed unnaturally loud to Oliver. "We noticed that we haven't seen hide nor hair of you since Percy's, uh, announcement."

"His announcement?" Oliver's hand shook. He quickly removed it from sight, and it rested on his thigh, twitching and pulling at the denim of his jeans.

"Whatever you want to call it." Fred snorted, and shook his head. "Always knew that under all that head-boy rule-loving whatdyerm'callit, he was a complete and utter idiot."

"Should have drowned him at birth," George nodded gloomily. "Would have saved us a lifetime of him threatening to tell Mum on us every other second, and now we would have been spared the shame of him being a…" he dropped his voice to a whisper, and eyed Oliver warily, "a _you know what_."

"_You know what_?" Oliver gulped. "He, um, told your parents that?"

Fred wrinkled his nose. "Mum hasn't stopped crying since. Keeps bloody cleaning, and then she cries all over her polishing and has to start all over again. The smell is starting to drive us all loopy."

"And Dad." George shook his head. "He was well mad at the beginning, after Percy left. He disappeared into the shed and all we could hear was banging. Till bloody three in the morning! Probably enchanted every single muggle artefact he had hidden in there. If he raided his own garden he'd have to arrest himself, I reckon. Now I reckon he's trying not to remember Percy exists. Better for all of us if he didn't, I say."

Oliver blinked. And tried very, very hard to quash the feeling that he had been right – that exploring the finer details of your sexual preferences and fetishes with your nearest and dearest was something best left to other people. His fingers itched and scratched at his jeans, and he couldn't help but forget the insignificant fact that he had been right all along, because, well, _Percy_ had been so wrong. Percy, who had had faith in his family – that they would value him above the social norms proscribed by wizarding society. Percy had loved his family and trusted them with his most innermost secrets – and to what avail? Treated as more of a pariah than he always had been, shunned and reviled by his own family. "Haven't any of you stood by him?" Oliver asked, before he could inform his brain of the decision that that was a very bad idea indeed.

George's eyes widened.

Fred's narrowed. "I haven't exactly seen you round our house much recently, Oliver."

Oliver reached for his glass again, and took a long swig. "Aye, well, maybe I wasn't so keen on him breaking the news that he's gay to all and sundry either." Oliver was proud of himself. He still hadn't implicated himself in all of this. And there it was. Suddenly. The _guilt_. He'd never really thought it through, that whole 'breaking up with Percy' thing. Just because Oliver wasn't there to see him, to touch him, to argue with him over who made the best hot chocolate, didn't mean that Oliver had stopped wanting him, needing him. Suddenly, all Oliver wanted to do was to stick that mug back together again, and feel Percy's slim arms slide around him, resting his freckled cheek against Oliver's neck. The smooth expanse of flat, warm skin between hip and shoulder, with no ungainly lumps or bumps – it was all he wanted. Despite all his protestations that he didn't want anybody to know about him and Percy, that he didn't want anyone to know that he found men attractive, Oliver knew full well that he could never even pretend to be satisfied with a woman. But regardless of that, Oliver knew that he still couldn't bring himself to admit the truth to Fred and George.

He couldn't bring himself to stand up for him and Percy. He _still _couldn't bring himself to stand up for Percy. Not even when he knew that Percy would be at his lowest ebb, when he would be feeling broken and alienated and lonely.

Oliver wasn't brave enough.

Not only had he buggered up the Quidditch match (and his career, most likely) today, he'd revealed himself as a coward as well. Oliver sighed. Realising such truths about yourself was enough to put the dampeners on any day.

He loved Percy. He knew that. Especially now, when a couple of hours had passed and he was cradling his fifth butter beer and leaning his head against the mantelpiece, desperately trying to trace Percy's likeness in the flickering flames of the fire, Oliver knew that.

Oliver was in love with Percy, but it wasn't enough.

T.B.C


End file.
